


Sherlock's Turn

by ComeAlongPond14



Series: The Riding Crop [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's had his turn with the crop, and now Sherlock gets his. Sexytimes ahoy.</p><p>As usual, I use art to guide the scene. This time it's this smexy piece of Johnlock goodness: http://harciczukor.deviantart.com/art/Riding-crop-370288280</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Turn

In fact, it was another week before the riding crop was brought out again. Whatever breakthrough Sherlock had provided for the case, Lestrade needed his help further, and the consulting detective was too busy racing around London for the next several days, stopping at the flat only when John insisted that he eat something, or sleep for a few hours.

Once the case was solved, Sherlock resumed his usual pattern of bizarre experiments, playing the violin at all hours, and occasionally causing small fires--and John began to wonder if he had completely forgotten that they’d shagged. He tried not to be too disappointed.

Then one evening, as he stood in the kitchen making tea, he heard a loud clatter in Sherlock’s room. As this was not unusual, he ignored it, though he kept one ear open in case there were sounds of injury, or possibly a fire. For a moment he did not register that Sherlock’s soft footsteps had grown closer, entering the kitchen behind him.

The feather-light touch of the riding crop against the back of his neck got his attention, however, and John froze, his spine straightening. His breath caught, and he flicked the stove off, knowing he wouldn’t be having tea just yet, after all.

Sherlock chuckled behind him, the sound low and seductive in John’s ear. “Smart man.” Stepping close, the detective raised his other hand to thread his fingers through John’s short hair, very slowly tightening his grip until he was able to draw John’s head back, baring his throat. The crop appeared beneath John’s still-lifted right arm, its broad end stroking lightly up his throat and along his jaw. John shuddered, leaning his body back into Sherlock’s.

In this position, Sherlock had no trouble lightly brushing John’s ear, running the tip of his tongue wetly down to the lobe, then biting down gently. A whorish moan slipped from John’s lips, and he flushed at the sound. His lover laughed again, his breath warming John’s cheek. “No need to blush so, John. I love the noises I draw from you.” Dipping his face lower, he licked the taut muscle of John’s neck, then bit down tenderly on the meat of the shoulder. John jerked, feeling Sherlock’s teeth, the light suction, knowing there would be a mark. He couldn’t even pretend to care.

“Where shall I take you, now that it’s ‘my turn?’” Sherlock’s voice was taunting, and John knew he didn’t need to answer; Sherlock almost certainly already had this planned out. “This is not the mortuary...no one will interrupt us here, no ‘social decorum’ to say I can’t bend you over the counter and fuck you.” John whimpered, prompting Sherlock to bite down again, a bit harder this time. This elicited a full-throated groan from John, and he pressed his hips forward helplessly, seeking friction.

“Or perhaps the kitchen table...bit of a lower surface, I could force you down further...I could see you laid out for me, watch your flesh turn pink under my crop...see your body open to accept my cock...”

John was shaking. “Please, Sherlock...”

The hand in his hair tightened, turning his face slightly so he could see Sherlock’s face, the fire in his eyes. “Please, what, John?”

The doctor writhed against him, desperate for skin-on-skin contact. “Don’t tease me. Just...just touch me.”

Sherlock laughed darkly. “If I recall, when it was ‘your’ turn, you made me finish my job and wait until we came home before I was fucked soundly across my bed. Turnabout is only fair, John.”

His words made John moan with unrestrained need, hoping this wouldn’t be prolonged by hours of no contact. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock being willing to wait, either.

Reading his mind, the detective snorted. “No, I’m not waiting. But teasing...yes, John, I am going to tease you ruthlessly.”

Stepping back, Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table, folding his arms lightly, fingers rubbing the handle of the riding crop sensually. “Get that jumper off.”

John turned around and took a bold step toward Sherlock, hoping to drive him into moving forward through sheer lust. Immediately the crop snapped forward, striking John’s scarred left shoulder. The wound was too old to be hurt by it, but it still tore a yelp of surprise from John, who froze, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. The detective’s eyes were smouldering. 

“You were in charge our first time, as you had wanted. Now it is my turn. Unless you want to redefine the terms of the power exchange in our relationship, I suggest you behave yourself.” His gaze slid lazily down John’s body, leaving John hot and aching with arousal. When their eyes met again, Sherlock looked ready to devour him. “Now get. That jumper. Off.”

Without hesitation, John gripped the hem of his jumper, and the t-shirt beneath it, and yanked them both overhead. They fell to the floor, instantly forgotten. He stood waiting, already panting slightly. Sherlock studied his body with open hunger, and almost absently, his empty hand dropped to the noticeable curve of his erection. John heard another remarkably slutty sound of want tumble from his own mouth as he watched Sherlock touch himself, slowly rubbing his clothed cock as he gazed at John’s flesh.

The detective glanced at his face, smirking slightly. “You’ll get your turn, John.” Standing up, he gestured with the crop, and John obediently moved into the living room, stopping in the open space to wait further instruction.

Slowly Sherlock circled him, hand now in his pocket, the other lifting the crop to trace it sensuously over the hard edges of John’s shoulder blades, down the defined curve of his spine, around to the panes of his abdomen. He traced a path up to John’s throat, watching him swallow hard beneath the touch of the leather, then dragged it back down, all the way to the button of his trousers. Sherlock’s smile widened.

“Undo them.”

Again, John obeyed wordlessly, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, unconsciously spreading his stance to keep them from falling below his waist. Sherlock’s eyes lit with approval. “Good boy...you didn’t even need to be instructed for that.”

Despite the condescending tone, the praise still flooded John with pleasure, surprising him. He tried not to smile, but he knew Sherlock saw it in his eyes. He stuck his tongue out, just a bit.

Abruptly the leather head of the crop was pressed to his lips, making him jump. Stormy blue eyes met almost translucent grey/green, and the rush of arousal that hit John when he saw the craving in Sherlock’s expression was dizzying. His lips parted with no conscious order, and wordlessly, Sherlock let the end of the crop slip into his mouth.

The head of the strap was wide, and John had to stretch his lips to accommodate, but he hardly cared; the look of lust on Sherlock’s face as he watched John suck the crop was enough to make him swoon. Sherlock’s wrist flexed, nudging the crop forward, then withdrawing it, slowly fucking John’s mouth with the leather. Each time he pulled it out, it slid free of John’s lips with a wet soft sound, and John instinctively reached for his own erection, desperate to breaking point for some friction.

The crop was yanked from his mouth and snapped down against his wrist so quickly he barely saw the movement. He froze again, mouth open, waiting. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, but not with anger. It was simply time for the next step. Breathing heavily, Sherlock moved close. Raising his arm, he pressed the length of the crop into John’s open mouth. Submissively, he closed his teeth around it, gripping it as Sherlock reached down, his beautiful long fingers slipping inside John’s trousers and pants to free his straining cock. A guttural groan from John had him grinning devilishly as he stepped back again, unbuttoning and shrugging off his own shirt, before reclaiming the crop and taking in John’s trembling form, from his wild eyes to his exposed erection to his bare feet.

A downward jerk of his chin had John dropping to his knees immediately, the thin carpet protecting his knees, and he automatically folded his hands behind his back, resisting the temptation to touch himself. Seeing Sherlock gaze down at him with such heat in his eyes was almost crippling.

Slowly, tauntingly, cruelly, Sherlock drew his free hand down his bare chest, over his stomach, to the hem of his pristine black trousers. John was shaking visibly, desperate to run his tongue over every inch of that bare flesh. A needy “please” hovered unspoken on his lips.

With enviable steadiness, Sherlock flicked open his trousers, revealing his typical lack of pants, and freed himself. John’s mouth flooded with saliva, and he licked his lips, rocking slightly as he tried to keep himself in check.

The detective’s smirk was infuriatingly sexy. “Want this, do you, John?”

John opened his mouth to retort, then let out a groan of pure sex as Sherlock seized the opportunity and thrust into his mouth, hard, pushing in as far as possible. John gagged, choking on the intrusion, but a quick inhale through his nose and he was stretching his jaw, accepting the face-fucking eagerly. Sherlock’s fingers twisted into his hair, stilling him to allow the detective to do the moving, thrusting deeply in and out.

At the same time, Sherlock slid the crop down, letting the leather--still damp from John’s saliva--rub firmly over his bobbing erection. John moaned in pleasure, hearing Sherlock’s answering sigh of bliss at the vibrations around his cock, and arched his hips to meet the crop. Somehow this was better than anything he’d imagined, better than being flogged; this was perfect.

Hardly had that thought crossed his mind, however, before Sherlock suddenly shifted the crop around him, and let it strike his back with the perfect amount of force, leaving a burning patch of throbbing, sensitized skin. John yelped, his teeth briefly closing around Sherlock’s cock, and was rewarded by another sharp blow. His whole body arched, his mouth slipping off of Sherlock’s cock with an obscenely wet noise, and his hips made contact with Sherlock’s leg. The friction was instant and gratifying, and he chased after it, the next blow leaving him rutting his cock needfully against the detective’s shin, hands coming forward to grip Sherlock’s thigh for support. The relief from the contact was enough to blur the biting sting of the crop into liquid hot pleasure, and a sound of pure, helpless lust ripped from him, along with a choked, “Sher--Sherlock! Please!”

His lover laughed softly, stroking his hair tenderly. “Alright, John.”

Abruptly he stepped back, making John hunch forward, bereft without the pressure against his cock. Then he felt the crop beneath his chin, raising his head. Sherlock was smiling at him, loving and wanting, filling him with soothing joy.

One of Sherlock’s knees rose, bumping into his chest and nudging lightly, until John willingly fell onto his back, his legs creaking as they stretched out. He sat back up slightly, bracing himself on his hands, eyes pleading with Sherlock to be touching him again, somehow, anywhere.

Sherlock stepped forward until he was standing over John’s body, then dropped down, straddling his waist. Resting his weight on his left hand, he leaned forward, kissing John’s lips fiercely. The crop rose, its head running so teasingly and gently over John’s skin, leaving fire in its wake. He pressed hungrily into the kiss, opening to allow Sherlock’s tongue to plunder his mouth, revelling in the slick brush of those beautiful lips.

Sherlock’s body rocked forward slightly, and John moaned into his mouth at the friction of the trousers against his still-exposed cock. “Sherlock,” he grunted, “Sherlock, get those damn trousers open.”

The crop patted his face lightly, making him grin at Sherlock’s mock-reprimanding expression. “Cheeky, John Watson.” Sitting up, he tugged a condom and the bottle of lube from beneath the cushion of John’s armchair. At John’s stunned look, the detective smiled and shrugged. “I planned,” he said saucily, and John growled and dragged him down into another kiss, biting lightly at that infuriating man’s lips.

Finally Sherlock shoved him back down, letting the crop slip from his hand as he drew back a short ways, dragging John’s trousers and pants down his legs, leaving him bare. Shoving the doctor’s legs apart--John groaned lustfully at the assertive gesture--Sherlock leaned over him, kissing him frantically even as he slicked his fingers with lube, carefully working John open, eliciting moan after moan as he thrust first one finger, then two, inside him. When a third breached, John tore his lips away, throwing his head back and crying out, “Christ, Sherlock, just take me already!”

Laughing breathlessly, Sherlock obliged. He slid the condom on, spread the excess lube over his length, then pressed forward, slowly and tortuously penetrating John’s body. When he was fully buried inside him, he raised his head to meet John’s gaze. There was awe and joy in those beautiful glasz eyes, and John heard himself whimper at the intensity of the moment.

Then they were moving, thrusting together and clasping at one another’s arms and hands, fingers intertwining, moaning and gasping and crying out each other’s names. Sherlock propped himself up on one hand in order to reach between them, grasping John’s cock and stroking him in time with his own thrusts, and John’s hips bucked as he fell back, fingers tangling in his lover’s unruly hair as he felt the pressure building. At last it became too much. “Sh--Sh--Sherlock, I’m, I’m gonna...gonna come...!”

Sherlock leaned forward to kiss him again, bruisingly, then drew back to watch him as he continued rutting into Sherlock’s fist. “Yes, John, yes...come for me.”

Those words, in that dark, low voice, shattered through John, and he climaxed, spilling over Sherlock’s long pale fingers and onto his own sweat-soaked stomach.

Apparently that sight was enough for Sherlock, who abruptly began thrusting harder, deeper, until with a low groan of, “John! Oh God, John...” he came as well, pressing deeply into his lover’s body.

For a moment there was only soft panting in the stillness of the room. Then they became aware of distant sounds--of Mrs. Hudson’s tinny radio far away downstairs, of traffic driving by, voices and life bustling away outside the flat.

Sherlock slowly withdrew, then slumped down beside John. His clean hand rose to cup his lover’s cheek, stroking the sweaty hair back from his forehead. Their gazes met, and John smiled sleepily.

“That was...good.”

Sherlock smiled back, leaning up onto one arm to kiss John once more, very gently. “Yes, it was...good.”

At last they found the strength to stand, gathering their clothes and redressing, and John slowly moved into the kitchen, wanting his tea now. As he passed Sherlock, the detective poked his rather tender arse with the strap of the riding crop. “I guess that makes it your turn again, next time?”

John paused, looking at the detective’s grinning face, and snorted, grabbing the crop and jokingly striking it into his open palm, savoring the satisfying smack it made--and the expression on Sherlock’s face as he did so. “I suppose it does, yeah.” Humming cheerfully, he tucked the item in question under his arm as he went about heating the water, already contemplating when he might put it to use.


End file.
